


Bullet Casings and Gunshot Residue

by Rinzler



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: Graphic Descriptions of blood, M/M, Trypophobia Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-01
Updated: 2015-04-01
Packaged: 2018-03-17 00:22:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3508133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rinzler/pseuds/Rinzler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're CSI, not police officers. They're trained in the fine art of fingerprint collecting, not dealing with armed suspects. They're flesh, and blood, and above all, human- and sometimes the universe can take a perverse sort of pleasure in reminding them of that fact.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bullet Casings and Gunshot Residue

“Nick- oh god,” Greg says, dropping his case. It falls to the floor of the room with an echoing thud.

For a second time seems to slow down. Nick hits the wall and his legs give out. He drops down, staggering, one knee hitting the floor and then the other, arms going limp at his sides and eyes sliding closed. Greg takes a step forward, about to run to him, when he hears the sound of a gun being cocked.

He turns. The other man in the room, a shadow of black and a gleam of metal, has his gun raised and his finger on the trigger.

Greg hits the ground and wood splinters fly as the shot hits the edge of the open door. He rolls backwards, sliding out of the room and kicks the door halfway shut as he makes it onto the landing. Another shot sounds, and the bullet passes clean through the old oak, hitting the floor a foot to the left of Greg. He lets out an involuntary whimper.

Downstairs, he hears the sound of a door being kicked open and the policeman assigned to guard the scene yelling “Stokes! Sanders! Where are you?”

“Second floor!” Greg yells in panicked reply and scrambles backward until he’s flat against the banister, as far out of the line of fire as he can get. The door is blocking him from view now, but if the gunman decides to open it then he’s still within range.

He hears pounding footsteps and turns to look as the officer runs up the stairs. He gets to the landing and then ducks as the sound of shattering glass fills the air, kneeling next to Greg and placing a hand on his shoulder, checking if the CSI is okay.

Greg shoves him off. “I’m fine! I’m fine! Go to the room, he’s getting away!”

The officer kicks the door the rest of the way open and runs into the room, gun drawn. Greg rips his radio from where it’s attached to his jacket. Not even bothering with protocol, he screams “CSI Sanders, I need an ambulance at 4925 Westchester Way right now! Gunshot victim!”

Another shot sounds and he stands up and runs back into the room. The officer is standing next to the broken window, gun drawn and pointed at something in the yard. Greg barely spares him a glance before running to the body lying on the floor in front of the dresser and falling to his knees.

“Nick?” Greg says, voice shaking, trying desperately to recall his first aid training. “Nick, Nicky, can you hear me? Are you conscious?”

A faint groan answers him and he lets out a sigh of relief. “Okay, Nick, that’s good. Can you tell me where you were shot?”

He leans closer. Nick says a half-slurred word that sort of sounds like it begins with an ‘s.’ Greg remembers Nick clutching his arm with a look of shock on his face when he first entered the room and takes a guess as to what he’s trying to say.

“Your shoulder? You got shot in your shoulder, Nick?”

Another mumble and a breathy groan. Greg decides to take it as a yes and pulls his flashlight from his vest pocket, shining it at Nick. He grimaces at the sight- the shirt sleeve is already coated with blood on one side, sticking it to his skin in bunched-up folds. His vest doesn’t look like it’s been hit, which means the bullet is probably closer to his arm than his chest.

Probably.

By some small mercy, Nick has landed with his bloodstained arm free, so Greg doesn’t have to roll him. Instead, he frantically tries to to remember his first aid training, but it seems like so long ago. The only thing coming to mind is to put pressure on the wound so the bleeding stops. Greg scrambles for his kit and yanks out a roll of white fabric.

He moves back over to Nick and pokes at his arm, trying to discern where exactly the wound is. Nick groans again when Greg finally finds the hole in his skin. It’s a little to the left of where the hole in his shirt is, and Greg swallows hard as he looks at it.

The edges of the skin are jagged, tinted black from unburned gunpowder, puckered inward. The muscle beneath is barely visible, raw cords twisting around the indentation being obscured by the blood flowing free. It’s like a chunk of skin was just torn out, leaving nothing to fill the space.

Greg retches a little at the smell and promptly wads the fabric up, pushing hard against the flow of red. He holds it there, but a few seconds pass and already it’s slipping, the skin and fabric too slick and full of liquid.

The fabric isn’t staying in place, so Greg grabs for his roll of duct tape and awkwardly tears a piece off with his teeth, placing one end of it on the fabric and the other on the fabric of his shirt, trying to pull it tight. Then he repeats the process with the other end of the makeshift bandage.

While he works, Greg tries to ignore his growing desperation. The blood flow doesn’t seem to be stopping, and Nick keeps letting out whimpers of pain every few seconds from between gritted teeth. This isn’t how he should correctly be doing first aid, Greg knows, but he can’t think of any other way and this is all he can do.

The officer in the room doesn’t look like he’d be of any help either when Greg glances over his shoulder at him. He’s busy radioing in and reporting the situation, probably requesting backup and giving their location.

Greg turns back to Nick and fights back tears when he realizes how pale Nick is turning. Blood has completely seeped through the flimsy bandage by now, and it’s starting to gush over Greg’s fingertips and the dips in between his fingers. He fights back the rise of bile in his throat when the warm crimson liquid spills over the backs of his hands, spreading across his skin.

Sirens begin to sound in the distance, and Greg breathes a sigh of relief. He turns to look at the officer. “Can you go down to the front and guide the paramedics back up here?” He says, voice wavering.

“Can’t,” is the terse answer. “I’ve got a suspect down. I’ve called for backup, but I have to keep eyes on him until it gets here. By the time I go down and walk back up, he could be gone.”

Greg takes a deep breath and tries not to panic. “Okay. Okay. I’ll- I’ll go down and get them. Nick?” He says, turning back to look at the older CSI. “I have to go. I’ll be back really soon, I promise.”

He moves to get up and a hand shoots out and wraps loosely around his wrist. Greg glances from it to Nick in surprise, who has his eyes closed tightly.

“Don’t go..” Nick mumbles. “Gotta stay…”

Greg blinks back tears and clears his throat, gently pulling Nick’s hand away. “I’m not leaving you alone. There’s an officer here, he’ll make sure you’re okay while I’m gone. Just-” He moves Nick’s hand so it’s lying over the bandage, adding a little extra pressure. “Keep that there, okay? You need to press hard on it. But you- you’re not alone, Nick.”

Then he turns and flees the room, stumbling over his own feet in his haste to get help.

**Author's Note:**

> A little idea that just wouldn't leave me alone. This is the only thing I've been able to churn out while dealing with massive writer's block and real life, so I figured I might as well post it.


End file.
